Fifteen Years
by Tom's Mum
Summary: The past catches up with Richard and Camille.


_Sorry, guys, but this is not the usual fluffy 'romantic' piece. I wanted to write something more autumnal, about regret and missed opportunities (you can tell I'm getting old!). I'm not entirely happy with it, but I thought I'd give it a go anyway! All comments are welcome, of course._

* * *

The middle-aged man in the grey overcoat shivered and pulled the collar more tightly round his neck. A grey November sky had been lowering all day, a cold wind was blowing and rain was forecast for later. It was a prospect to dampen the spirits of even the most cheerful of people: and mirth had never been part of Richard Poole's make-up, even in his younger years. There was a time when he had longed for weather like this, but no longer. Enough was enough.

He glanced around him. Very few people had ventured onto Hampstead Heath on this bleakest of days – just the occasional jogger and dog-walker, to whom he nodded with a brief _Good morning._ But Richard was not deterred by the fine rain which was now drifting over the open grassland; grasping his black umbrella firmly in one hand he made his way, as he always did at this time of morning, towards the series of ponds which stretched along the eastern fringe of the Heath, towards his daily appointment with Poirot, Wimsey, Morse, Marple and Tennison. They were waiting for him by the landing stage, as always, and he reached into his pocket for the special duck food that he had researched and obtained from the internet. Glaring at the small podgy child who, encouraged by a foreign au pair, was throwing handfuls of stale bread at the birds, he began to scatter the seed on the water.

The child began to cry inconsolably when the ducks turned their attention to Richard's more interesting offering. Stifling a momentary irritation, Richard held out the packet to the little girl.

"Here", he said "try some of this. It's much better for them than bread. Bread is not nutritious and simply makes them fat."

The child looked at him dubiously, then sidled up, grabbed a quick handful of grain, hurled it at the birds and ran away screaming.

Richard sighed wearily, hoping that her parents wouldn't misinterpret his intentions. In the current climate it had been perhaps foolish of him to approach a young girl like that. _What has the world come to?_ he wondered dismally. Feeding time over, he wandered a little further watching the wildlife and sunk in what had become his normal gloomy thoughts. The rain eased off and he shut his umbrella with a snap, shaking the drops off the folds.

"Still wearing those old suits of yours, then?"

He froze. Fifteen years. Fifteen years since he had last heard that alluring and seductive voice, and yet he would know it anywhere. He closed his eyes and it all came rushing back: the unbelievable heat and humidity, the brilliant blue of sky and sea, the endless golden sand, the scorching of the sun, the low hum of insects, the heady aroma of tropical flowers – and the light, bantering voice that had both teased and enchanted him for the two confusing and disturbing years that he had spent in the Caribbean. Slowly he turned around, almost afraid of what he might see.

Camille. There she was, inexplicably. Older, of course. A few lines round her eyes, and shorter hair. Possibly a tad thicker round the waist, but since he had never found the courage to test its slenderness for himself, that had to remain a theory. But indisputably, improbably, gloriously still Camille. And dressed in a riot of Caribbean colour, as usual, in a bright cherry red coat with glimpses of turquoise blue underneath. She looked at him, her head tilted slightly to one side like an expectant bird, a slight smile on her lips and a question in her eyes.

"Well?"

Richard's wits deserted him completely. He stared at her, disbelievingly. With an effort he pulled himself together and forced speech to his tongue.

"What on earth are you doing here, Camille?"

"And there was I thinking you might be pleased to see me. Looking for you, of course. To ask you a question. They said at your apartment block that you always came to feed the ducks in the morning. Though quite honestly I think the ducks could wait on such an awful day as this."

"Well, I had to make sure that Tennison was all right – Morse and Poirot kept chasing and attacking her yesterday." He was babbling.

"You named the ducks after your favourite detectives?" Her astonishment was palpable and he reddened with embarrassment.

"Well … er … I had to call them something. I couldn't keep calling them Duck A and Duck B, could I? And I had run out of members of the Royal Family."

She smiled ruefully. "I don't know anyone else who would bother to name ducks on a public pond. But after Harry the lizard I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Can you really tell them apart?"

"Of course. If you look at them closely enough you will see that their markings are slightly different. Some have notched feathers, others have lost one or two." He saw her looking at him strangely, and added, simply "I spend a lot of time here."

"Yes, I heard you had retired."

"Mm … well, it wasn't my choice. I was made to retire early under the latest round of austerity cuts. About six months ago. And so here I am on Hampstead Heath communing with the wildlife."

"Nothing wrong with that. So how else do you pass the time?"

"Oh, well, one afternoon I volunteer at the local library – another victim of austerity, now staffed almost entirely by volunteers. And one afternoon I work at a local charity shop. And then there's the heady excitement of the market on Wednesday and a trip to the supermarket on Friday. It's a giddy life that I lead these days."

He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but truth to tell his life was an empty shell. He wasn't going to tell her how he had begged to be kept on, only to be told that if the older officers didn't retire they would have to make some of the younger ones redundant. Put like that, he hadn't really had a choice; after all, he had no family, no-one who was dependent on his income. So he had accepted the inevitable with as good a grace as he could muster, but he missed his work terribly. Life now lacked a sense of purpose. He felt useless – dumped, not because he was no good at his job but just because he was too old, even though he was only fifty-eight. He had a more than comfortable pension, but that was no compensation for the loss of the only thing in his life that had real meaning for him.

Surprisingly, he also missed his colleagues – well, some of them at least. He had returned from the Caribbean a better man than when he set off. If nothing else, Saint-Marie had taught him how to work with and lead a successful team, and he had transferred those skills to his new posting to Scotland Yard. That had also come with promotion to Detective _Chief_ Inspector. His particular work ethic meant that he wasn't popular with everyone, of course, but by and large he had got on well with his colleagues, and had been genuinely touched when they presented him with a beautiful (and, he knew, expensive) book about the history of police detection on his retirement. He didn't see much of them these days – apart from anything else they were all younger than him, some considerably so – but there was the occasional pint to be enjoyed now and then, although he found it difficult not to be able to discuss work with them any more. How he longed for a juicy murder to get his teeth into!

"Would you like something for lunch?" They had wandered as far as the café. Unsurprisingly no-one was sitting at the outside tables, but they managed to find a couple of stools inside on which to perch. Richard bought sandwiches and coffee (he didn't like the tea they served there) and wriggled back onto his tall stool.

"So what about your parents?"

He continued to munch deliberately, then put down his sandwich. "My father died a couple of years ago – heart attack, very sudden and unexpected. I wanted Mother to move down here so I could keep an eye on her but she wouldn't. She had her friends and insisted on staying in Leicestershire. But it was all such a shock to her and she never really got over it. She slowly descended into dementia and has been in a home for the past year. I used to go up to see her every couple of weeks, but it's got to the point where she no longer recognises me and can even be quite aggressive, so I only go on the odd occasion now."

"I'm sorry, that must be hard."

"Yes, it is of course, although as you know we were never exactly close." He became suddenly conscious that he was doing all the talking – probably because it was so rare for him to have anyone to talk to these days. But then she had always been good at getting him to talk …

"And what about you? And Dwayne and Fidel? How are they? "

She updated him briefly on his former colleagues, thinking (but forbearing to comment) that if he was really interested he could have kept in touch over the years.

"Well Dwayne has long since been retired of course. He opened a sort of drop-in centre for teenagers, to keep them out of trouble and it's really popular. He's quite the philanthropic hero these days! And you'll never believe it, but he's in a steady relationship with a lady he's known for more than 30 years!"

"Good God, that doesn't sound like Dwayne!"

"No, but I think the prospect of a lonely old age has made him realise it was time to give up his old ways. No-one wants an ageing Casanova!"

"No indeed." He gave her the little half-smile that used to twist her insides so remorselessly. He knew all about the prospect of a lonely old age. "And Fidel?"

"Oh Fidel left the island not long after you did. He used to hero-worship you a bit, you know, and he never felt quite the same about DI Goodman so he accepted a sideways move to another island where there were more opportunities for him to get on. He's still there, a DI himself now, with four children. I saw him a few months ago, in fact. He looked very happy."

"I'm glad to hear it. I always knew he would do well. The Commissioner must also be retired by now, I suppose?"

"Oh yes, about 10 years ago. Then he had a stint as Governor. You can imagine how much he enjoyed that!" She rolled her eyes melodramatically.

"God yes! I'm relieved not to have been around to experience his rule! And Catherine …?"

Her face clouded instantly and he could see unshed tears in her eyes. " _Maman_ became ill about six months ago. I came home to nurse her – did you know I moved to Paris a couple of years after you left the island? She died last month. Very peacefully – the nuns looked after her at the end, and she was greatly sustained by her faith. But I miss her dreadfully." She dabbed at her eyes frantically.

It was Aimée all over again. He hadn't known what to say or do then, and he felt equally helpless now. He wanted to reach out and take her hand, but dared not: they hadn't met for fifteen years and she might not find it appropriate. In the end, he opted for simplicity.

"I'm so very sorry."

She fought back the tears. "Thank you. It's still very raw, so forgive me for behaving like a watering can."

"Not at all – I know how close you were. It's very sad. So you're on your own too now. Well, of course it's wonderful to see you again, but you haven't answered my question: why are you here, Camille?"

She hesitated for a moment. "Well, I suppose you could say that _maman_ sent me."

* * *

It had been a couple of weeks before the end. Camille had been sitting quietly by her mother's bed, holding her hand as she rested. She looked up, suddenly aware that Catherine's eyes were on her.

"What is it, _maman?_ Can I get you anything?"

Catherine squeezed her daughter's hand. "No, darling, I'm fine. I'm just so happy to have you here with me."

Camille was instantly stricken with remorse. "I'm sorry, _maman_ , I've spent so much of my life away from you. I should have come back years ago. In fact, I should probably never have left in the first place."

Catherine patted her arm soothingly. "Nonsense," she said, "you had your own life to live and a career to make. I should never have forgiven myself if I had stopped you from leaving. It's not as if you didn't come back to visit – and I came to see you in Paris every couple of years, so I count myself fortunate."

"Not _that_ fortunate, though. I never gave you the grandchildren that you wanted. I'm so sorry about that."

"There's no need to apologise. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy. If that had involved grandchildren then I would have been very pleased, but you know I have several god-children and they all had babies, so I was not exactly deprived. I just wish I could be sure that you were happy and settled before I go, but you never really found the right one, did you?"

Camille bit her lip and looked down. Seeing that her daughter could not trust herself to speak, Catherine continued.

"Or rather, you never really gave anyone else a chance, once Richard had gone. Isn't that it?"

Camille lifted her head to protest, but was silenced by her mother. "Yes, I know you married Didier, but it didn't last, did it? You were still too besotted with that man, and poor Didier didn't have a hope in hell."

"It wasn't quite like that, _maman_ " she said quietly. "I made a mistake, but Didier was no saint – he was the one who left, not me."

"But you've never quite forgotten Richard, have you?" It was said very gently.

"No."

"Yet when he was here he drove you up the wall with his fussy, pedantic, uptight ways. You were always arguing. I know he was clever and a brilliant detective but quite honestly, Camille, I never really understood what you saw in him."

Camille sighed. "I know you didn't, _maman_ , and to be honest sometimes neither did I. It's true we had some spectacular fallings-out, and on the face of it we didn't have much in common. Yes, he could be childish and arrogant and his social skills were virtually non-existent, but you didn't know him as well as I did. There was so much else underneath. Much of the bluster was just a shell he built round himself to hide his vulnerability. Deep down he was kind and decent and had a sort of childlike innocence. I just wanted to show him that the world need not always be unkind. He could be very funny, too, and he was the most stimulating boss that I ever worked for – I learned such a lot from him."

"So why did it all go wrong?"

"It didn't go wrong, exactly – it just never happened. I don't know why really. There were times when I thought he felt the same way as I did – like when Aimeé died and when I believed he was my Erzulie date – but he never made the smallest move and I was too frightened of scaring him off so in the end I had to conclude that I had imagined it all and that he just wasn't interested. And then he left, quite suddenly, and nothing was ever resolved. So I still don't know."

"You need closure, _chérie_ , this has been going on for far too long. So why don't you try and find him?"

" _Maman,_ it's been fifteen years! I don't know him any more. I can't just go barging into his life again."

"Why ever not? You've clearly not forgotten him, and you have unfinished business. Do you want to spend the rest of your life regretting what may have been a missed opportunity? What is the worst that could happen? You find that he is bald and fat and married with six children, and you wonder how on earth you were ever attracted to him! Or you still find him attractive but he is not interested in you. That would be painful, but surely it would be better to know than to live in this constant limbo? But perhaps he hasn't forgotten you either … It may only be a small chance, but why would you forego it?"

Camille still looked doubtful. Catherine pressed her advantage home.

"It would please me greatly, _chérie_ , if you would do this for me. Then I can rest at peace knowing that at the very least you will be able to get on with your life."

Of course she had promised. And now here she was. And here he was too. Not bald, though his hairline had definitely receded, and not fat – in fact, a little more rangy that she remembered. As for the six children, that remained to be seen.

* * *

"What do you mean, your mother sent you?" Richard was bewildered. He had never really understood her mercurial mind, had never known what to read into some of the things she said. He had always maintained that he didn't understand women full stop. But Camille was in a class of her own – in the past he had upset her without knowing why, made her angry quite unintentionally and had rarely known how to please her. Now here was another of her baffling pronouncements.

She explained briefly. " _Maman_ knew there was something I needed to ask you, so just before she died she made me promise I would come and find you."

He suddenly felt very nervous indeed. "Er … so what was it you wanted to … um … ask?"

So this was it. The moment she had thought would never come. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves – so much was riding on this.

"Did you ever really like me, Richard?"

He didn't know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't that. He was flabbergasted. "What …? What ….?" he stammered.

"Did you ever really like me?" She repeated her question patiently but with a firmness that demanded a reply.

"What sort of question is that? _Of course_ I did!"

"Then why did you never ask me?"

Now he was really floundering. "Ask you what?" The tone was unmistakably desperate.

"For a drink, for dinner, for a film, _for anything_! I gave you so many opportunities, so much encouragement, but never once did you ask me out."

"You did?" Panic was setting in.

"Of course I did. I was in love with you."

Now his head was really spinning. Coherent thought was conspicuous by its absence. He stared blankly at her, trying and failing to discern whether she could possibly be serious.

"You _were_?" he said weakly.

"Of course I was. You must have realised – everyone else knew."

"Well, you know I was never any good at knowing what you were thinking … Camille, if this is a joke, then I must tell you that it is in pretty poor taste."

"That's quite hurtful, Richard. How could you think I would joke about a thing like this. It was hard for me to come here and ask that question. I know we are quite different and I know we argued a lot, but it's my belief that we brought out the best in each other and we could have been good together. There were times when I thought that perhaps you felt the same as I did but I was never sure – you were so reserved and uptight. And since you never made the slightest move I came to the conclusion that I was mistaken – that you didn't want me after all."

"But I did!" It was involuntary – out before he realised what he was saying.

"You _did_?" Now it was her turn to be astonished. "Then why …?"

He shrugged helplessly. "Well, I was your boss so it would have been awkward – and quite inappropriate. And anyway, every woman I've ever asked has turned me down, and I had no reason to suppose you would be any different. And then it would have been horribly embarrassing – impossible to carry on in those circumstances. So …" His voice trailed off miserably.

"But I wouldn't have turned you down" she said flatly.

"No, well, I suppose I know that now. Hindsight is a wonderful thing."

Her legs suddenly gave way and she sat down abruptly on a park bench, still wet from the recent rain. He thought briefly about what it would do to his overcoat but nonetheless sank down wearily beside her. He felt about a hundred years old. They sat silently for several minutes, each trying to absorb the enormity of what had just happened. Then finally she spoke, the words seemingly dragged out of her.

"What a mess. What an utter waste of fifteen years. You realise we could have built a wonderful life together – we could have had a family perhaps. But it's too late now."

He didn't want to think about it, to contemplate the scale of his loss. "I'm sorry, Camille … I can't tell you how sorry I am. I never meant to hurt you. I always wanted someone to share my life with, and then I didn't recognise the opportunity when it was right in front of my nose. How could I have been such a fool?"

He sank his head in his hands in despair. She had never seen him so full of emotion, so exposed. She laid a tentative hand on his arm.

"I'm as much to blame as you. I knew how inexperienced you were with women and how buttoned-up. I should have made the first move. But I was afraid of getting it wrong and scaring you away." She sighed deeply. "It's a sad and sorry tale of misunderstandings and lack of communication and what might have beens. And now here we both are – _two_ dolls with wonky eyes left on the shelf."

Overwhelmed with a mixture of regret, frustration and anger at the sheer unfairness of life, she paused to collect herself, then continued.

"Well I can't say that I'm happy at the outcome of this conversation, but I'm glad that it's all out in the open at last and at least I have an answer to my question. And now I suppose we can both get on with our own lives."

He nodded slowly. "What will you do?"

"I haven't decided yet. I left the police force when I returned to Saint-Marie to look after my mother. I could re-join, but I'd have to retire in a few years anyway, so there doesn't seem much point. Or I could run my mother's bar, which she left to me of course. I've put a temporary manager in to look after it for me for the time being. Or I could do something completely different – I have an idea, but I'm not quite sure about it yet."

"You're not married? Sorry, I should have asked …"

"Not now,no. I married someone more than 10 years ago, but it was a mistake – it lasted less than a year. You?"

He shook his head. The drizzle started to fall again, so they stood up. An awkward and uncomfortable atmosphere hung in the air; neither knew how the encounter should end.

"Well …"

Time to take control of the situation. "Look, the rain is getting heavier. You must get back to your hotel before you get soaked. It has been wonderful to see you again, Camille. Thank you for coming. Let's keep in touch." Somewhat awkwardly he held out his hand. She shook it reluctantly; it was not quite what she had envisaged but there seemed nothing else she could do. Pulling her coat round her she turned and began to walk away.

"Camille!"

She looked back, trying to keep the hope out of her eyes.

"Take my umbrella!"

She accepted it mutely, castigating herself for a fool. He was Richard, he was not going to change. With a brief nod of thanks she turned and walked quickly towards the exit. Richard stood and watched her go until the red coat rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

He returned to his flat in an emotional vacuum. The conversation with Camille had left him totally drained – it would be some time before the implications of what she had said would fully sink in. He just knew that he had rarely felt so wretched – and he was a man whose life had left him not unacquainted with wretchedness. He dropped into his favourite chair like a stone and balled his fists into his eyes. All the many interactions he had had with Camille back on the island flashed before his eyes in searing detail and he shredded himself mercilessly. How had he not noticed what had been apparent to others? How had he managed once more to snatch defeat from the very jaws of victory? Why oh why had he not acted when he had the chance, when he realised he was becoming attracted to Camille? Instead, he had followed his habitual course of doing nothing – it was usually safer that way. Only this time he had got it very badly wrong - with devastating consequences for them both.

He poured himself a large whisky. _To hell with tea,_ he thought savagely. How good she had looked in that red coat – stylish as ever with her cropped hair. With his receding hairline he was conscious that she had aged better than he had. _Well, that's one thing we have in common,_ he thought grimly, _we both have less hair!_ He pictured her now, back in her hotel packing. She had said she was leaving for Paris tomorrow. Out of his life for good this time. Just as well, probably.

But as he gulped down his whisky far too quickly something visceral stirred in him. Rebellion: it couldn't end like this. All those years of missing her, of deliberately cutting off all communication because he knew it would only make it worse. They had had so little time together and there was so much that remained unsaid. He drained his glass. He had perhaps drunk rather too much whisky and it had left him feeling warm and rather fuzzy. But it also gave him the courage he normally lacked. Without further thought, he reached for his phone.

* * *

Camille lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling light. A headache was throbbing at her temples. She drank another glass of the rather good red wine that she had bought on the way home from her meeting with Richard. The bottle was already half empty, and she knew it was not helping her headache, but quite frankly she didn't care – it was the numbing effect that she was after. Had she been wrong to come? Would it have been worse to spend her life wondering than to know that happiness had been so close? She wasn't sure. _Well, Maman,_ she thought, _you have your wish, but am I any more settled or happy now than I was before?_ That was a difficult question– she suspected that it would take weeks and months before she had an answer. She closed her eyes and tried to rest; she had a long journey in front of her tomorrow. At that moment the hotel telephone shrilled.

"Yes?" she snapped, assuming it was the hotel reception, for no-one else knew where she was.

"Oh … er … hello, Camille. It's Richard Poole. I was thinking … um …" His voice dwindled.

"Yes, Richard?"

"Er … well, I was thinking that … um … maybe … maybe … you could leave my umbrella at the hotel reception and I'll pick it up tomorrow."

Her heart sank. "Yes of course."

There was a long pause. "Was that all, Richard?"

"Yes. No!" She could hear him gulp then he spoke in a rush. "Look, Camille, I know it's fifteen years too late but … well … I wondered if … er … if you … um … if you'd like to have dinner with me this evening."

She closed her eyes. Finally. "I'd love to" she said.

* * *

There were many places to eat in Hampstead but he chose a French restaurant deliberately. Not that he had anything against French cookery these days – he knew perfectly well that it consisted of far more than frogs legs and snails – but he thought it would make a statement: that the old, prejudiced Richard Poole had moved on (well, a bit). Camille looked stunning of course in the elegant turquoise dress he had glimpsed beneath her coat. Her shorter hairstyle really suited her and flattered her undeniably older face. He just about managed to tell her so. He had made an effort himself, and hoped that she noticed (she did).

Did this count as a date? If it did, then it was going well. They were gradually slipping back into their old ways and she had even dared to tease him once or twice. Naturally he asked about her marriage and she explained that – although she hadn't realised it at the time - she had chosen Didier because he was the polar opposite of the stuffy Englishman Richard had been for much of the time. But it hadn't worked – although he was fun, she had quickly found him superficial and it was not long before he started playing away from home. She found she could not tolerate that, and they had agreed to split quite amicably after little more than six months. The whole experience had put her off dating for a number of years. She could have added – but did not – that she had then gone out with a college lecturer, thinking that someone more intellectual (ie more like Richard) might be what she was looking for. It was not.

She also talked about her work in Paris, where she had lived for more than 10 years, and he spoke of the time he had spent at Scotland Yard. They compared the British and French police systems and of course disagreed about the merits and drawbacks of each. It was stimulating stuff, and both inwardly realised how much they had missed the cut and thrust of their frequent arguments. Whatever else it may have been, life on Saint-Marie had certainly never been boring.

"So what does the future hold for you, Richard? Apart from ducks, that is."

"Not very much. There's some sheltered accommodation just across the road from where I live now, and I was thinking of moving there in a year or two."

"But isn't that full of old people?"

He smiled wryly. "Well, I will be old before very much longer, Camille. Some days I feel positively ancient already. And at least there will be a warden to keep an eye on me and pick me up when I fall over."

"But that's ridiculous! Don't be old before your time! You're only - what - fifty-eight – you've probably got another twenty or thirty years of active life in front of you. What you need is something to stimulate your mind – you're much too young to be retired and sit around doing nothing."

"Well, there aren't many murders to solve in Hampstead. I do my voluntary work, and lots of puzzles …"

"That's not enough! You need a job. And I think I know the very thing …"

She leaned forward eagerly across the table and touched his hand. "Look, I said earlier I was thinking about taking a new direction in life. Well, I'm contemplating setting up as a private investigator …"

"You've been watching too many of those Humphrey Bogart films!"

"No, no – not like that. Listen: when I was in Paris a woman I knew slightly lost her daughter – she just disappeared one day. The police did their best but their resources were limited and there came a point when they had done as much as they could and they just had to abandon the case. The poor woman was distraught, she wanted to hire a private investigator to continue the search but she just couldn't afford it. Have you any idea how much those guys charge? It's outrageous! Well, I want to help people like her, people without lots of money. I want to be an _affordable_ private investigator. I'm not in it to make a fortune – thanks to _maman_ I have more than enough to last me for the rest of my life – but just to cover costs and draw a very modest salary. Come and join me, Richard!"

His hand stirred in hers. "Well, I …"

"Oh Richard, it would be perfect! You could do all the research and the thinking and I would do the fieldwork. You know we make a great team! And between us we have so much experience and so many contacts. To be honest, I was a little nervous of going it alone, but together we could really make it work!" She grew troubled for a minute. "Of course I couldn't pay you very much … nothing like what you've been used to."

"Money isn't an issue for me either. In fact, I'd work for nothing." Her enthusiasm was infectious and he was becoming excited, feeling more alive than he had for a very long time. The enterprise was risky; it might well fail – but so what? At least he would be busy, and doing something worthwhile. For the first time since his unwanted retirement he felt a sense of purpose, something to banish the bleakness in his life. In his heart he knew that Camille was right - he wasn't ready yet for old age. Perhaps the future still had something more in store for him.

And of course there would be Camille. Fifteen years was a long time to be apart – they had both changed, they had had different life experiences and it would take time to get to know each other again properly. Would it ever be as it was before? Would they just remain friends or would the embers of their old relationship stir into something deeper? Neither knew the answer to that question, but whatever the outcome they would be able to face the future side by side. They had wasted a lot of time and it was too late for some things, certainly. But perhaps not for everything.

It was a no-brainer, really. "Count me in", he said.


End file.
